


Taste of Vibratos

by Consulted_moriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drabble, Other, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:21:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Consulted_moriarty/pseuds/Consulted_moriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble on how Sherlock Holmes feels through Music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste of Vibratos

_A word to the wise, these thoughts that trickle in are not for the faint of heart._

_They are not for children who weep at monsters beneath their bed or, rather, in their head._

_They are not for the adults that whisper “It is not real, child, go back to bed."_

_And they are not for the Doctor nearby, looking on at the man with the violin in his hands._

Not a string plucked or drawn by bow, not just yet. No, I allow this rhythm to stir in my mind, to  _rip_ apart my thoughts. Gentle, at first. Tending to what is simply a case. Dig deeper, bring the melody beneath the skin. Bring the song within. Look beyond what clouds my mind and tell me if these monsters are real. Tell me if they lurk under my bed.  _Tell me what I must do to rid myself of such delicate thoughts._

And this is how it begins. This is where the bow is taken into hand. No, not yet playing. Tend to the strings, look over the woodwork, assure self that this instrument was crafted for creation…not destruction. Is he watching? Yes, he is always watching me. Tend to the body in hopes that the mind did not destroy it first.

_Do not fret, John. I will tend to myself._

No.  _No._ I will  _not_ tend to myself. I will let the first pluck of this string echo into my mind and send waves through each thought level, rolling through the tidal before settling down with the eerie hum always welcome.  _Hurt me, I dare you._  My mind will take this challenge, it will taste of venom and it will make me weep of what I have become. 

_Am I the monster underneath the child’s bed?_

Let the question ring, let the bow rise to the strings and let it pull. Deep, strong, tend more to the lower strings than the high ones.  _Pull_ my veins from my body and  _tell_ me this does not hurt. This is where I would cut it off, this is where the thoughts are silenced by song. This is where emotion drips through my notes and brings to the world what I cannot. 

I am not man. I am music.

This thought is favoured, and one I will dine on for this tune. Pull,  _pull_ that bow once more. Test the waters before jumping in. Tend to the A, as such a sound is not in tune with the rest. Now tend to the thought and bring it into tune with the rest.  _Am I the monster?_ Never was a question of my own answered, not by me. Nor by my intelligent brother. 

                                              _ **[**_ _Hey everybody! Look at the freak! **]**_

 _Tell them I am not so, Mycroft! Tell them I am a boy like anyone else!_  

Such childish thoughts I should have learned to leave long ago, and yet they haunt me just as this tune does the same.

"I recognize that tune." The Doctor put in as if opinion was what I seek as of now.

Yes, a familiar song. 

"You composed it, didn’t you?"

I will not grace you with an answer, John. You know it already. And you know why I play it.

Seeping into me,  _shredding_ me. Let it. Let this song do that. Do not speak at the pauses, John, do not stop my emotion from coming through.

                 It is not often that I let it.

                               _It is not often that I play this tune for you._


End file.
